Like Dragonfire
by Cruellae
Summary: Zevran leaned close, and Alistair could see the fine lashes around his golden eyes.    "I fancy things that are beautiful, and things that are deadly.  Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?"  Alistair bit his lower lip and blushed.
1. Chapter 1

Alistair did not envy the elven assassin, laying helpless on the ground at Neria Surana's feet. She was scowling at him as though her glance could kill him. And perhaps it could, she was a mage, after all. A mage and a scary one at that, which made for a total of two scary mages in their ragtag party. Alistair shook his head and wondered, not for the first or last time, how it had come to this.

Two months ago he had been living in the Warden's camp at Ostagar, a happy member of a larger family, bound together by blood and duty, but happy nevertheless.

And now he was here, beside two scary mages and a nutty Chantry sister, of all things, and at their feet an assassin. An assassin hired to kill him, no less.

And then Neria reached down and helped the assassin to his feet.

_I suppose that's what I get for not paying attention,_ thought Alistair, as the elf managed to give each of the women in the party a lewd glance.

He sputtered a few words of protest and Neria scowled. She did not like him questioning her authority.

"If you're so concerned," she said, "you can watch him."

"Don't think I won't," he shot back.

Morrigan muttered something only Neria could hear, and they both laughed. At him. He was certain of it. He glared at the swamp witch, and then at the elf, and then at the assassin.

They made camp a few hours later. The assassin sat on the edge of camp, golden eyes glinting in the firelight, watching every interaction. Alistair watched him watch Neria, as she made her nightly rounds, speaking briefly to Sten, giggling with Leliana, scratching her mabari's belly, and finally ending up next to Morrigan, who sat away from the others in her own little camp.

She spent way too much time there, learning scary witch tricks from the swamp ice queen, Alistair was certain. While he was glaring at Morrigan—and realizing he'd spent the better part of this day glaring at _someone_, the assassin approached him.

"A curious woman, our leader," said Zevran, his voice soft, meant for Alistair alone.

Alistair turned his glare back to the assassin.

"Good luck," he said, scowling. "She's over there learning witchy spells. She'll turn you into a toad if you so much as look at her wrong."

"Perhaps I like a little danger," said Zevran.

"And perhaps I wouldn't mind too much if you were a frog."

Zevran shook his head, slowly. "Such hostility. What have I done to deserve such a cold reception?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the whole incident this afternoon where you tried to kill us."

"That was hours ago," said Zevran , waving his hands. "And besides, that was only business. Nothing personal."

"Right," said Alistair, drawing out the 'i' to emphasize his sarcasm.

Neria intended to make good on her threat, and so she assigned Alistair to watch Zevran while Zevran took watch. Alistair probably would have done so anyway, but since she'd assigned it, he could better resent it.

He spent the first few nights ignoring Zevran, who made poisons or sharpened his daggers by the dim light of the fire, but late night watch is boring, and eventually he plunked himself down next to the strange elf and asked a question.

"What is Antiva like?" he asked, hoping it was a neutral enough question.

"Ah, it is lovely, my friend," said Zevran. "But of all the wonders of Antiva, I think I miss the leather the most."

Alistair blushed. "You don't need to say any more," he said. "I don't want to know."

"I mean it literally, Alistair. When I lived in Antiva, my apartment was just above a tannery. The smell of leather is what reminds me most of home."

"Oh," said Alistair. "Do you miss it?"

"The leather? Or Antiva? I miss both, to be sure. This Ferelden smells of wet dog, even before I had one sleeping beside my tent."

"I've never been away from Ferelden," said Alistair.

"I'll admit, it has its charms. As do you, my friend."

"Charms? Me? I think you're mistaken. At best, I'm adorably clumsy. Or at least that's what I shoot for. But the women here…well…"

"They fancy the company of other women, it seems. A pity for us, no?"

"They do, that much is obvious. But what about you, Zevran? You seem to fancy none and all of them at the same time. You flirt and you swoon, but none of it seems sincere. What do you fancy?"

Zevran leaned close, and Alistair could see the fine lashes around his golden eyes.

"I fancy things that are beautiful, and things that are strong. I fancy things that are brilliant and things that are deadly. Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?"

Alistair bit his lower lip and blushed.

"No," he said, when he found his voice again.

"You are not used to the attentions of other men?" said Zevran, surprise in his voice.

"Well, I'm not really used to attention from anyone. I was raised in the Chantry, you know."

"And the people in the Chantry are usually blind?"

Alistair laughed. "You don't have to flatter me, Zevran."

"Is it flattery if it is true?"

"You play this game with everyone," Alistair said, suddenly aware of just how close they were sitting. "I've been watching you ever since you got here. You flatter and you smile and you stand around looking so damn pretty, so that none of us will ever think of harming you, or worse, getting close to you. I may be a virgin, but I'm no fool."

Zevran set his chin, his features tighter than usual.

"So you do think I am pretty?" he said, his tone light and jovial, but with an undercurrent Alistair had never heard before. "It so happens I need my beauty rest to keep this way." He made his way to his tent, sending a dark glance at Alistair before ducking inside.

"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Zevran is the way he is because of what he's endured?" said a female voice from the shadows.

"Neria?" said Alistair.

A small crow landed on the bench beside him and morphed suddenly into his fellow Warden.

"Morrigan has been teaching me to shapeshift," she said. "And you," she said. "Be nice to Zevran. He's one of us now, and Maker knows we all have our issues."

"What do you mean by 'what he's endured'?" said Alistair.

"Ask him sometime," said Neria. "Perhaps he may even tell you."

"Quit talking like Morrigan and just tell me," groaned Alistair, but by then the crow was gone, back over to Morrigan's corner of the camp.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they made it to Redcliffe, Neria had decided to trust the assassin, and so Alistair was no longer forced to share his watch.

Alistair was glad.

He needed that time to think, and the assassin had a tendency to _complicate_ things.

Alistair was beginning to realize there was something wrong with him.

Growing up in the Chantry, he'd never thought about girls. He figured it was nothing unusual, that he neglected to think of them because they simply weren't present.

But now he was constantly on the road with three beautiful women, and while Morrigan despised every one, and Neria and Leliana preferred the company of other females, they seemed open to possibilities. Leliana had gone so far as to wink at him and brush her hand across his arm rather frequently.

Sure, he was a blushing virgin, but that was not the problem.

The problem was his complete and utter lack of interest.

When the loose scarf draped across Morrigan's chest slipped out of place, Zevran leered, Neria blushed, and even Sten stole glances. But he found himself strangely unmoved.

Not that his body didn't have _needs_, just that Morrigan's bosom or Leliana's behind underneath the folds of her leather armor did not inspire them.

He was almost relieved to find Redcliffe overrun with the walking dead. Walking dead were simple enough, chop them up with a big sword. And besides, he liked combat. It took his mind off of…other things.

Late into the night he hacked away at skeletons held together by tendons and magic. Here, on the battlefield, he belonged. He knew what to do, and he was good at it. Here he was an equal to anyone, able to match Zevran's grace and swiftness with his own strength and will. Here, the party needed him, he protected them, took on the wrath of their enemies so that Neria might cast spells and Zevran might slip behind them and slide a dagger to where it would be most effective.

Zevran came to his room at the inn once the battle was done. The elf stood in the doorway, hugging his arms around himself in a way that made him seem somehow smaller and vulnerable.

"What is it, Zevran?" asked Alistair.

"I…I wish to thank you," said Zevran.

"Whatever for?"

"That group of corpses," said Zevran, "the ones that spotted me as I was sneaking behind them. I might have been injured or even killed had you not jumped in their way, bashing with your shield and yelling."

"Yeah," grinned Alistair. "That's what I do."

"I simply…" Zevran trailed off, looking up at Alistair. Alistair could see his golden eyes and the dim light of the fire glinted off of the bit of his chest that was exposed by the torn collar of his shirt. Alistair realized this was the first time he'd really seen the elf without armor.

"I wished to thank you," said Zevran. "No one has ever simply protected me before."

"You don't have to thank me," said Alistair. "It's my job." He looked over the elf again and suddenly and without warning, his body began to assert itself, its _needs. _

"I…" he stumbled, hoping Zevran wouldn't notice how flushed his cheeks suddenly were, or worse, the part of him that was beginning to stand up and insist on notice. "I should get to bed. Goodnight, Zevran."

The elf nodded and walked away, in that graceful way of his, and Alistair put out the light and sat on his bed.

He replayed the conversation in his head, the firelight on Zevran's hair, the tone of his voice.

"Allow me to demonstrate my gratitude," said his imaginary Zevran. As he pictured Zevran kneeling before him, he could do nothing but take himself in his hand and begin to stroke.

And in his mind it was Zevran's hand, running across his length, squeezing and rubbing.

He pictured Zevran's tongue, darting out from between soft lips to caress him, and then Zevran would open his mouth and take him inside. His mouth would be warm and wet around Alistair, and then he would start to suck.

He imagined Zevran before him, pleasuring him, with hands and lips and the nimble tongue he'd bragged about more than once. What could Zevran do with his tongue? What might it feel like?

Alistair bit his lip to keep from making noise as he reached his climax.

"Zev," he whispered, but only inside his own head.

He lay in the dark with his seed spilled on his stomach and realized that he wanted Zevran Arainai, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

When there was nothing to kill, Zevran watched his traveling companions.

The qunari was the most likely to kill him, he'd decided. The big man sent suspicious glares towards their leader whenever she wasn't watching. She hadn't quite earned his loyalty, he made that much obvious. Her stunt at Redcliffe—saving the town from certain annihilation—had annoyed the big oaf. Why he was still around when he held them all in such contempt, Zevran could not be certain.

Their fearless leader, as he liked to call her, divided her time between the main campfire and Morrigan's separate space. He watched her speaking to Leliana, the two of them giggling and pointing at their feet.

"Watching the women, I see," said a voice beside him. He turned to see the Templar sitting beside him, staring at the women.

Zevran studied the man for a moment before responding. If anyone in the party was a mystery to him, it was this man, who wore some feelings on his sleeve but kept others smoldering deep beneath his eyes. In combat he was a fool, always shouting and bashing with his shield and doing his level best to keep any enemies focused on himself. His altruism would only earn him an early grave, thought Zevran, but in truth he admired the reckless courage and the abandon with which Alistair threw himself into harm's way to save his companions.

_He'd save a companion he may not even like that much_, thought Zevran. Alistair often sent long glances his way, his eyes dark, his expression grim in the flickering firelight, glances with a purpose Zevran could not divine.

"A pretty sight, those two, no?" said Zevran. He might have said something about fancying Alistair just as much, but the large man was looking at him with that solemn, serious expression he wore so often when he regarded the assassin. What did it mean?

"I guess," said Alistair. He fell silent for a long time, and Zevran watched the fire dance and flicker, something he never tired of.

"It was weird, going back to Redcliffe," said Alistair.

"You grew up there, no?" said Zevran.

"For a while," said Alistair. "I...am a bastard," he said.

"Welcome to the club," said Zevran. "You have much company there, my friend."

"Well, there were rumors that I was Arl Eamon's son," said Alistair. "They weren't true, of course, but they made Isolde upset."

"I see."

"So Arl Eamon shipped me off to the Chantry when I was a boy. I was so angry, I didn't want to go. I took an amulet of my mother's, the only thing of hers I had, really, and I threw it against the wall. It shattered. It was a stupid thing to do."

"You were young," said Zevran. "You did not wish to leave the only home you knew."

"I suppose."

"When I was sold to the Crows, at age seven, I was similarly angry. I lived in a whorehouse, a slave, and yet I kicked and screamed as they dragged me away. Because it was my home, and strangers were taking me away somewhere for a purpose I did not understand."

Alistair nodded, his eyes on the fire.

"I hated the Chantry," he said, "but I found some solace in my training. I was good at it, and I liked it."

"I understand," said Zevran. "The Crows were not the most…hospitable or kindly, but I excelled at the training. When I was frightened or angry I would simply lock myself in the practice rooms and go through the routines until I could barely stand."

Alistair smiled, and Zevran was taken aback by how handsome he was.

"I did the same thing, you know. Practiced like crazy until the bad emotions went away."

His eyes wandered over Zevran's face, gentle and curious. "The Templars are not as cruel as the Crows, but they do indenture you to serve for life. I was lucky enough to have Duncan recruit me, or I would have spent my whole life there."

Zevran returned the smile, the lingering gaze. "It is not such a terrible life the Crows provide. If you do well, the rewards are nice enough. Still, it is a gilded cage, but a cage nevertheless. And there is always the reminder that you are worthless, that your life means little and your death even less."

"Your life means a lot, to us," said Alistair, biting his lip after the words spilled out as though he had not meant to speak so freely. "I mean, you're a friend and all."

Zevran swallowed, his chest constricting, but when his words came out they were casual, almost flippant.

"A friend? I have never had one before. How very novel…"

"You've never had a friend?" said Alistair, his tone horrified.

"It is most unwise to make friends among the Crows," said Zevran. "A friend there is simply a person who can more easily kill you."

"Well, it's different here," said Alistair. "Neria is definitely your friend, I see her talking to you all the time. And Leliana, she cares for you. Even Morrigan, well, let's just say she doesn't want to kill you, which practically makes you her brother."

"And you?" said Zevran, unable to keep his mouth shut or even the hope from his tone.

_You are weak_, he told himself, _and it will be your end._

Alistair gazed at him again, his expression solemn, intent. He looked like a man praying.

"I…" he swallowed, hard.

Zevran could not help but be hurt.

"You and I have not known each other long," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "And I am a difficult man to befriend." This sentence he could not keep from being bitter.

He stood, then, to make an escape, but Alistair gripped his arm. The other man's fingers were so large, calloused from swordplay, and surprisingly warm against his skin.

"That's not what I meant," said Alistair. He sighed. "I am such a fool. I just meant…"

Zevran stared at him. Was he blushing? The fire made it hard to tell.

"I just thought that...well…maybe we'd be more than just friends."

Zevran's jaw would have dropped were it not for years of training to keep a poker face.

"I, ah, I royally screwed that up, didn't I?" Alistair stood, running a nervous hand through his hair. "I'll just go stand over there until the blushing stops," he said.

Zevran opened his mouth to speak, but Alistair had already gone.


	4. Chapter 4

The band of heroes rested at Redcliffe for a time after saving the Circle of Magi and delivering the Arl's son from a demon's embrace.

And Zevran had time to reflect on Alistair's _peculiar_ behavior since that night when he'd said "more than just friends."

It had started with cheese. A particularly rare and pricey cheese, a slice wrapped in wax paper and slipped into his hand late at night. And when he'd looked up at the large Templar, the only explanation he'd gotten was one of those dazzling smiles.

And when it was late and he huddled in the rising Ferelden cold, more than once Alistair had removed his cloak and draped it around Zevran's shoulders.

And one night he had emerged from the woods where he had been gathering firewood to see Alistair polishing his weapons…literally. His Crow daggers and the longsword Neria had given him gleamed in the falling light. Alistair had just given him another stunning smile and said "your weapons should be as fine as you are."

And it dawned on him that Alistair was _courting_ him, and the thought of someone courting Zevran Aranai, assassin and son of a whore, was so absurd and so tender he did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

"Do you know what this is?" said Alistair, sitting beside him and shaking him from his thoughts.

The Templar was holding a red flower Zevran recognized, though it took him a moment to think of what it was.

"A rose," he said. "We have them in Antiva, but they are quite rare and hard to grow. Only the richest nobles can grow them."

"Well, in Ferelden they grow much easier," said Alistair. "I found this one behind Lothering's chantry, before we met you. In the middle of all that squabble and devastation, it was so beautiful. I couldn't leave it behind to be destroyed by the darkspawn. It was like a reminder that no matter how horrible things get, there is still something worth saving."

"A lovely sentiment."

"I…I thought I might give the rose to you. In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you."

Something stirred in Zevran's heart, something unruly and dangerous. _I must put a stop to this foolishness before it ruins us both,_ he thought.

"If you wish to bed me, Alistair, you only have to say so," he said. "I grew up in a whorehouse, I know the dance of romance well, but we do not need to play such games."

Alistair frowned, and Zevran wondered why he felt as though he had just been punched in the gut.

"I…I don't. I mean, I do want to sleep with you…but…" Alistair sighed. "I want to bed you, but that's not why I'm doing this. I know I could just say the word and you'd hop into my tent. I may be dense but not that dense."

The Templar gave Zevran a long look, his eyes impossible to read.

"I was just thinking, here I am complaining about stomping across half Ferelden and fighting all the disgusting darkspawn and you haven't exactly had the best time of it either. I mean, so much of what we're doing right now is to save what family I have, and you are so far away from home and everything familiar."

Alistair bit his lip again and thumbed the rose.

"I just wanted to tell you—and not because I'm trying to get you into bed but just because I want to—I wanted to tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this darkness."

Words failed Zevran, and so he spoke a language in which he was a master, laying his lips across Alistair's and letting his tongue seek out the wet and warm cave of Alistair's mouth, putting all of his passion into the movement of lips on lips and tongues entwined.

Alistair pulled away first, breathing hard.

"I know you want to skip all this mushy stuff and get right to the steamy bits," he began, and Zevran smiled. "But I want it to be different between us. I don't want to be a notch on your bedpost, or tentpole, or whatever it is you're using to keep score now. I want more than that, Zev."

And as Zevran let his eyes brush the handsome contours of Alistair's face, the callouses on his hands, the strength in his sword and shield arms, he realized he wanted the same.

Zevran Aranai never knew when to retreat. And it would someday be the death of him—but he found that in the sunshine of Alistair's smile, he did not particularly care.


	5. Chapter 5

Alistair and Zevran walked into the woods, looking for firewood. It was a flimsy excuse, but the rest of the party had been busy enough they'd barely noticed.

Alistair was not sure how far they'd walked or if they'd been saying anything at all. Zevran would occasionally look up at him, glances that made his stomach tingle and his blood run hot. The third time Zevran turned that mischievous gaze on him was too much. Alistair stopped and pushed the elf against a nearby tree.

And then they were kissing, Zevran's mouth so warm and moist, he tasted faintly sweet and vaguely like flowers from the Antivan tea he'd been drinking. Alistair pressed his body up against Zevran, pinning him to the tree. The elf was all lean, lithe muscle, and when Alistair could feel a long hard length pushing back at him through Zevran's thin trousers, he nearly lost his balance.

Zevran's hands, so nimble and deft, stripped them both of their clothes, and before Alistair knew what was happening, he was kneeling on the mossy ground, Zevran spread out naked before him. The sight of the elf, all bronze skin and long limbs, took his breath away.

He thought it would be weird to touch another man like this, but when he tentatively rubbed Zevran's cock, the elf made a soft moan in the back of his throat, and weirdness be damned, all Alistair wanted was to hear more of those sounds. He leaned forward, and just as he'd imagined Zevran doing many times, he ran a tongue over Zevran's hard length.

"Alistair," gasped the elf, and any trace of hesitation he might have had was gone. This was what he'd wanted, to have Zevran at his mercy, to reach beneath the surface bravado and aloofness and dip his hand into the fire beneath.

He kissed along Zevran's cock and ran a tongue over one bronze, hairless thigh.

"You are beautiful," he said to the elf, and was rewarded with a grin. Zevran turned and rifled through the pockets on his discarded pants for a vial of something. He poured some oil onto his hand and rubbed it on Alistair's cock.

His hand was warm and slippery, and Alistair shuddered under the gentle touch, quivering with anticipation. Then Zevran lay back and guided Alistair forward.

"Are…are you sure?" Alistair gasped, breathless.

Zevran nodded and smiled again, and Alistair plunged himself into the elf. Zevran was warm and tight, and it wasn't weird at all, it was wonderful and right and everything Alistair had hoped for. He thrust himself against Zevran, and watched the elf close his eyes and thrust his hips forward, wanting Alistair deeper, harder.

"Zev," Alistair whispered, pulling the elf into his arms as he came, shuddering with the intensity of it all, a pleasure like he'd never experienced before.

Afterwards they were content to sit together for a while, Alistair holding Zevran against his chest in the ebbing light and wondering. And it wasn't long before Zevran's hands began to travel again, and find Alistair hard and eager once more. They did not return to camp until darkness had fallen, and with no firewood.

If anyone was going to talk, well, Alistair discovered he didn't really mind. In fact, part of him wanted to broadcast it to the world, that he loved Zevran Aranai, and…

He loved Zevran Aranai. And his cocky joy left him the moment that realization bubbled into his brain. He loved Zevran Aranai, and may the Maker help him.


End file.
